


The East Coast

by rsadelle



Series: Coasts Trilogy [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-17
Updated: 1999-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsadelle/pseuds/rsadelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Krycek finally get together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The East Coast

**Author's Note:**

> I promised you I would finish this trilogy. :) It's been a year since I sent out "The West Coast" and began my career as a slash writer, so this is my anniversary present to you and to myself.

There is a crunch of gravel and I meet him at the door. We both have our guns drawn. We pull the curtain aside. He tenses.

"Who is it?" I ask. He turns to me and I can see the flash of despair in his eyes. It disappears as quickly as it appeared.

"My mother." His voice is flat. I click the safety back onto my gun and tuck it into my waistband. I do the same to his. He steps out onto the porch to greet her. I follow slowly.

"Hi Mom. What are you doing here?"

"I came to look for some things your father had." Her eyes narrow. "What are you doing here?"

"I took some time off. I decided it was time to go through Dad's things." With this, she finally notices me. He sees it and introduces me. "Mom, this is my friend Alex." I extend my hand. She takes it, but she doesn't like it.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mulder."

"Hello Alex." She is . . . not cold, exactly, but certainly not friendly. I hate her again for hurting him. For not accepting his life. For making him take the blame for all these years. For making him feel like a child again.

We move into the house and I help her carry her things into the kitchen, then leave them alone to talk. I know I'll only get in the way.

***

She made lunch as they talked and Krycek found other things that needed his attention.

"I was cleaning out my attic and I realized I was missing a lot of things. I thought your father might have taken them."

"Well, I haven't gotten through everything yet, so I don't know where things might be. I'll help you look after lunch."

"I didn't know you were taking time off."

"It was kind of a spur of the moment thing. I needed a break and the house needed to be cleaned out."

"And Alex?"

"I didn't know he would be here. He just kind of showed up. He tends to do that."

***

I had set down the groceries and turned to put something away when I saw him standing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Alex," I managed to gasp before he was there and kissing me. A blinding, searing kiss. The sort of kiss that burns all the way down to the soul.

He pushed me up against the counter and the force of his heat bent me back over the edge of it. I pressed back up toward him.

"Alex," I murmured between kisses.

"Yes," he growled back at me.

He fucked me there, in the kitchen, using some of my newly purchased olive oil. He fucked me, hard and strong, and things began to get better.

***

"Perhaps we shouldn't have sent you to England. Perhaps your father was right about you."

"Was he?"

"I don't know." Her tone grew harsher. "You tell me."

"Was he my father?" He turned to face her, angry.

"I am your mother, Fox," she ground out. "You will not speak to me that way."

"Does that mean he wasn't my father? Is that why you won't answer me."

"You will not speak to me about this again." Her voice had reached a harshness that told him she was serious. And so not wanting a repeat of the slap he'd gotten the last time he'd asked her, he dropped the subject. They moved on to more innocuous topics over lunch and as he helped her find what she was looking for, but their exchange was strained and she left as soon as she possibly could.

***

I watch him walk her out to the car. I can tell they've exchanged harsh words and that she has hurt him once again. He comes back in to the house and closes the door behind him. He leans back against it for a moment. We look at each other across the space of the living room. I don't go to him because . . . because I'm a coward and I'm afraid that if I get near him, he'll take his anger out on me. I don't want him to hurt me again.

He moves toward me. He picks up the vase on the table in the entryway and turns and hurls it against the door where it crashes into the silence. He turns back and comes to me. I put my arm around him and he burrows into my neck. I can feel his tears. I wish for the hundredth, thousandth, time that I could have my other arm back, so I could really hold him. But I only have one arm, so I wrap it around him as tightly as I can and I just hold him and hold him until his tears stop and he is left shaking hard enough to shake us both. I pull him up to look at me.

"You okay?" He merely shakes his head and presses his face back into my neck. After a while in which I can only use my arm to try to give him some comfort, he presses a kiss onto my skin.

"I love you," he says, pulling his tear-stained face up to look into my eyes.

"I love you too," I say, leaning in to kiss him. He presses back against me. I slide my hand under his shirt and over every bit of skin I can reach. I pull his shirt up and over his head. I kiss him gently. I kiss his neck. I move lower to gently tongue his nipples. He sighs and tips his head back. I slide my hand up to wipe the tears off his face.

"I love you," I tell him as I kiss his stomach. "I think you're beautiful." I unzip his pants. "You're the sexiest man I've ever met." I slide his pants down and he steps out of them and slips out of his shoes. I pull his socks off. "I want you." I kiss my way back up his body. He gasps when I mouth his cock through his boxers. It seems to break something inside of him and he grips my hair, pulling me up.

He kisses me deeply, wetly, opening his mouth to pull my lips into his. He sucks at my neck as if he can't get enough of the taste of me and it is my turn to stand still as he undresses me. Then he slides his boxers down and off. He lies down on the floor and lets me play again.

I stroke him carefully, gently, running my hand up and down his body. He pushes up into my touch and I make it firmer. He pulls me down on top of him and I use my hand to hold his head still while I kiss him. I stroke his body with mine.

He breaks the kiss. "Alex. Alex, fuck me, please."

I kiss him. "Yes." I reach for my jeans and dig through the pockets, looking for lube. He undulates against me, nearly making me lose my concentration. Finally I find what I was looking for and I kiss him again. He opens the lube and squirts it onto my fingers. He sighs when I press one finger into him and groans at the second. He moans when I add a third and gently caress the gland inside of him.

I slide into him slowly. He tries to pull me in faster, harder, but I won't let him. I want this to be gentle, to counteract the reaction of his mother, to convince him, show him, that somebody, even if that somebody is a thief and a traitor and a murderer, does love him.

He tries again, but I resist until he gives in. He says my name, a steady stream of, "Alex, Alex, Alex." I continue thrusting, slowly, gently and I kiss him over and over again until we both come. We lie on the floor until we start to get sticky and then I push myself up.

"Come on, Mulder. We need a shower." He looks up at me with fuzzy eyes, then mutely reaches a hand out so that I can pull him up. He kisses me, a kiss as sweet and gentle as our lovemaking, and, for the first time, I begin to think that he might be all right after all.


End file.
